Page 1 of Playoff (Toronto Blaze #4)

Extreme makeover

Alek

I climbed out of my Lamborghini in the players’ parking lot of the LA NHL facility.

The California breeze lifting my cap was cool in January.

At least to me. After spending my entire hockey career in Florida, Texas, Nevada and SoCal, my blood was thin.

Still, beat the hell out of places like Edmonton and Winnipeg.

The hat twisted around, loose on my head. I'd need to adjust it now that I'd shaved off my hair. I ran a hand over my newly smooth jaw. I was regretting the extreme makeover, but the anger that inspired it was still burning in my core.

I checked the cars in the lot, a growl threatening when I saw Weasel's Ferrari. Fucking double-crosser. I shut the car door, careful not to slam it, and stalked to the players’ entrance, ready for my close-up.

The haircut made a statement, and everyone on the team would find out what had really happened in our game last night.

I pushed open the door to the locker room, where at least half the roster players were already assembled, changing for practice, shooting the shit, making plans.

My stall mates weren't there yet, so I had space on each side. I pulled off my hat, threw it on the top shelf. Hung up my jacket and stashed my shoes. Slowly, the noise level dropped. I reached for the hem of my T-shirt and pulled it over my head. My full sleeves were on display, but that wasn’t what attracted attention.

"What the fuck ? Is that you, Denny?" team captain Marty asked.

I turned around, every guy’s stare on my smooth head and jaw. I crossed my arms. "What's the problem?"

"Your hair. What happened to your hair?"

Last night, when we’d left after the game, my hair fell to my shoulders. I often had to tie it back to keep it from falling in my face. Not now. The full beard was also gone.

I shrugged. "I lost a bet."

Marty’s eyes bugged. "Who…what the hell?"

I turned my head until my glare was pinned on Weasel. " Someone bet that I couldn't get away with an illegal stick last night."

The guys were quiet again for a moment, since the resulting penalty had led to our loss.

"That's why you had that stick?" Marty sounded pissed.

I nodded, gaze still focused on Weasel. "It was supposed to be just the first couple of shifts. Everyone knows that none of the coaches risk stopping the game to ask for measurements." If a coach was wrong, they'd be assessed a delay of game penalty.

"But you got caught, dumbass."

I looked at Beano, Weasel’s best friend. "Because the guy who bet me told San Jose what was going on."

I heard the sucked-in breaths. For a teammate to deliberately give up a power play? That shocked them. Some of these guys believed their teammates were all loyal. News flash—they weren’t. Everyone was out for themselves.

Marty frowned. "Why did you bother shaving, then? It wasn't a fair bet."

"Because I don't cheat. Or weasel out of consequences. I follow through. Some of the guys in this room are not to be trusted." I was pissed that I’d forgotten that, thanks to tequila and a misguided belief that I had friends.

Everyone’s eyes were focused on Weasel. "Fuck you, Denny," he spat.

"What the fuck, Weasel? Why would you do that?" Marty was almost as pissed as I was.

Weasel turned to the others, all watching him in shock or anger or disappointment. "He slept with my sister!"

This? Again?

"I told you, I didn't know who she was," I growled. “You didn’t mention that she was visiting and joining us at the bar. You buggered off with some jersey chaser so how the hell was I supposed to know she was related to you?”

Two months ago, I’d been out at a club with Weasel and Beano.

With the two of them nowhere to be found, I’d been approached by a woman wearing a short, sexy dress and enough makeup that no one could see a resemblance to my teammate.

She’d been all over me, wanting sex, and I'd obliged. If I’d known who she was, I wouldn’t have touched her, but I didn’t ask for ID.

Weasel pointed at me with a shaking finger. "You don't mess with a teammate's sister!"

“I DIDN’T KNOW!” I yelled, frustrated that he refused to listen. "Maybe you should tell your teammates who she is. Or, what the hell, tell your sister not to mess with us. She wanted it."

Weasel lunged for me. I loosened my arms, ready to vent my anger with my fists, but Beano pulled him back.

Marty, wearing most of his gear, stepped between us. "For fuck's sake, the two of you. That stunt cost us a goal. Denny, apologize. And Weasel, let it go."

I’d apologized to Weasel before, and I wasn’t doing it again. It obviously didn’t take, though he’d pretended everything was okay. "What am I supposed to apologize for? Do I have to ask every bunny I come across if she's related to Weasel?"

Some of the guys muttered. The fuckboys, the ones who didn't ask questions if they found someone willing, were on my side. The ones with female siblings supported Weasel.

Yeah, teams really were just one big happy family.

The assistant coach came in through the door, and, noticing the tension in the room, narrowed his eyes. "Better not be late, men. And Denny, manager wants to see you."

My teammates turned to me, curious about this unexpected summons. Weasel had a smirk on his face, so maybe this wasn't so unexpected. Had he been sitting on his anger, pretending things were fine and just waiting for the right moment?

"Now?" Coach was out for a couple of days with a family situation, so our assistant should be the one calling me out. The team manager didn’t normally deal with the players directly. He nodded, so I shrugged and pulled my shirt back on.

This was my third year in LA, my longest stay with a team so far.

Weasel had been signed at the start of this season on a one-year deal.

I wasn't all rah-rah kumbaya with my teammates, but Weasel and I had gotten along.

Neither of us had family in the area, and we liked scoring with the puck bunnies.

We hung out together on the road, since we were looking for the same things.

I'd thought he was as close to a friend as I had on the team.

I should have known better. That dare, which he’d made into a bet—whether I could get away with our second line center's stick for a shift—meant he'd been planning to mess things up for me the whole time. Fuck him.

This was just one example of why I didn't buy into the whole “team is family” bullshit some coaches liked to spew. At the end of the day, we were coworkers, often competing for the same job. The only family the team resembled was one of those fucked-up ones that sent people into therapy.

I had time to consider possibilities as I took the elevator up to the management offices.

My contract expired in a few months, at the end of the season.

If this was about a new contract offer, I'd have heard from my agent.

I was the top scorer on the team, so they weren't sending me down to the farm team.

By a process of elimination, it must be a trade.

I'd been playing in warm states since I started in the league. I hoped I wasn't being sent to Edmonton. They had a good team, but the weather…

The GM's executive assistant, a woman about my age of thirty, who I suspected was having an affair with her boss, smiled at me when I entered the executive suite.

She was pretty—hell, LA was full of beautiful people who'd come looking for a chance to make it in film or television.

Actors took up most of the paparazzi attention, so there was less for athletes.

And even then, basketball, football and baseball absorbed most of that space.

Playing hockey here didn't get a lot of attention.

Which was great—it gave us leeway to have fun.

"You can go on in." Her eyes ran up and down my body, lingering suggestively at my groin, then she smiled and turned back to her computer. Nice to be appreciated but I wasn't going to touch anyone management was banging.

The office was big, with expensive carpet and furniture, and a window looking down into the arena where the teams played.

We weren't playing tonight, so the ice was covered by flooring for the basketball team. Behind a desk, close enough to the window to watch what was going on below, was the team’s general manager.

He wore a bespoke suit, his face tanned and his hair perfectly cut.

He smiled politely, but his eyes were cold. Definitely a trade.

Fuck Weasel. And fuck me for believing him.

"Have a seat, Alek."

I sat down in one of the chairs in front of his desk, letting my legs spread and my arms relax. Never let them see you sweat.

"I won't waste your time. You've been traded."

I nodded.

His eyes narrowed. "Your coach complains that you're not a team player."

As if that’s why they’d signed me. "I was hired to score goals. And I do."

"This last stunt, with the illegal stick?—"

No, I was not taking the blame for that. "One of your 'team' players was the instigator on that. He dared me to do it, and then told San Jose so I'd be caught."

His jaw clenched.

I ran a hand over my shaved head. "This was the price for getting a penalty and losing the bet. I might not be a team player, but at least I'm honest."

I wasn’t sure why I bothered explaining myself. The trade was a done deal. Nothing I said would change anything. I was just so tired of taking the blame for other people’s bad behavior.

He shoved my comments aside and focused on selling what he’d done. "Actually, this trade should work for you. A team with a good chance of making the playoffs."

"Sounds like a nice change." I showed my teeth in an imitation of a smile. LA had only made the playoffs once while I was here and had been eliminated in the first round. He didn't like that, but I had no reason to kiss his ass anymore.

He leaned back in his chair, fiddling with a pen he’d picked up from his desk. "One of the two final teams from the last playoffs."

Minnesota and Toronto. And fuck, if it was Minnesota, he be saying the champions. Toronto was among the last teams I'd want to play on. Cold and Canada. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. I kept my face impassive.

"You're going back to Canada. The Toronto Blaze."

It wasn’t hard to connect the dots. Their first line winger had gone down last month. They’d been struggling this year but had finally started to turn things around. Seemed their team management hadn't given up on the season yet.

He picked up a folder and slid it across the desk.

"Here's the information on your flight, hotel, etc.

We're keeping it quiet till Coach is back, so don't post on social media or speak to the press until we release the news.

Angelina is forwarding everything to your email as well.

She'll arrange to get your things packed and sent on. "

I stood. He didn't offer to shake my hand.

I turned and prepared for life in Canada. Again.